


That Memory of What Is Not

by Esteliel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dreaming, M/M, Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired and abandoned in a cell beneath Angband, a young Vanimórë is visited by hope in a dream that shows him the pleasure and love that is to come one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Memory of What Is Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts).



> Written for Spiced_Wine's request for fic about her beautiful OCs. I'm sorry this took me so long!

He shivers in the darkness. It is not so bad, he tries to tell himself, clinging to the pride of his heritage – but even knowing what other horrors might have been visited on him, it is difficult when darkness surrounds him, cold stone keeping him from all that is warm and bright and alive until it feels like the poisoned darkness is flowing through his very veins, instead of the warm blood of his mother's people.

Carefully, he tilts his head against the rough stone that keeps him prisoner, trying to find a way to rest that does not hurt. It is impossible. Everything hurts. He listens to his heartbeat in the silence of his cell, concentrating on the steady throb to drown out the need to scream, or weep. At last, after long minutes or hours might have passed, a hint of warmth seems to reach him, like that one final ray of light warming the clouds before the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the final flower of autumn opening its bud despite the freezing wind.

He sleeps. 

When he wakes, tiredness falls off him. He sheds it together with his memories when he rises, and there is sunlight to warm him, air heavy with the scent of flowers to revive him, the tinkling of fountains and gentle laughter in the distance to draw him forward.

With every step, a memory of darkness and pain and shame is gone. Another step, a memory of torment vanishes. A further step, gone are unwept tears uncounted.

Their place takes the heat of knowledge, a map drawn within his heart with lines of fire: this street is where he had a new patrol set last month. That house is where he plans to house the youngest recruits next year, as it is closer to the training grounds, and further from the wine bars that so often tempt them into trouble. This heat is the heat of five days, and his gardeners have groaned and sweated and labored through all of these five days to make certain that the roses are fragrant, the lilies unbent, the gazebos half-hidden beneath the verdant growth their hands have coaxed forth these past years. Now, everything is prepared for the feast. There is gentle, soft music when he makes his way deeper into the gardens here at the heart of his realm, and Sud Sicanna seems to throb with a restless energy that echoes the thudding of his heart in his chest.

The fête goes on for long, long hours; there is dance and laughter and breathless whispers of lovers when the sun sinks down; there is refreshing, crisp white wine served in large, cool jugs once the stars swirl above them and dancers in bright silks swirl below the studded sky. There is more dancing; soft laughter; friends resting on soft settees heart against heart as they share tales and breathe the sweet smoke of large, bejeweled pipes together. At last, when the stars pale, and the black of the sky turns into the deepest blue, and then the first flush of rose lights the horizon, Vanimórë finds himself resting likewise against a beloved, slender body, feels a heart beat with his own as skilled hands thread through his hair while lips sticky with a spiced red wine breathe cinnamon-scented adoration over his cheeks, his nose, his ears, until he laughs and wrestles his beloved to his back, aflush with affection and the stirrings of the deepest desires of his heart. Elgalad smiles up at him, for that is his name – the name of his heart, Vanimórë thinks breathless, feeling it contract in his chest with pain at the strength of the love that rushes through him as his lips form that word.

Elgalad. Meluion. He breathes it against his innocent beloved's lips, and Meluion releases his jewel-studded hair to take Vanimórë's own hand, and draws it down between his legs with a coy smile. The trousers Elgalad wears are like those of the dancers: diaphanous silk that does nothing to hide him from Vanimórë's gaze, and now Elgalad draws his hand beneath, and his fingers slide over that firm, warm length, hard with Elgalad's desire for him, decorated with rings of bright gold that shall keep his beloved sweetly aroused for all of the night, or for as long as he desires it.

There is a gentle tinkling as he becomes aware of a presence behind him. Long, thin braids of milky white pour over his shoulder, the beads of amber blood-warm even against the heat of his own skin, and the breath that ghosts along his nape brings with it a heartbeat of memory: water erupting, streams of clear liquid arcing in torrents of icy cold from a glacier's quickly melting surface, the brilliance of snow-white feathers beneath a huge moon... But the lips that kiss him are warm like sunlight, although they taste of wine. When his arms wind around that bewitching creature to capture and trap that swan-made-flesh by pulling him around, pressing him lightly down into the cushions with his arm while his eyes slide all over the mostly nude form of this intoxicating being, Bainalph laughs and stretches and arches against him in invitation, baring that pale throat where already some other guest has left his mark, a red bruise that is obscene and arousing against the flawlessness of his soft skin.

“Swan prince,” he says, and knows him in that instant, remembers the cool glades of the Greenwood, the fire of the wood's inhabitants, sees this sinful creature laugh and dance and kill with the same fearless passion with which he now writhes lightly against him, begging so wantonly to be handled with cruelty. Vanimórë smoothes his finger down his chest, teases apart strips of leather dyed white that reveal more than they hide, and when he circles a red nipple, setting his nail to that small nub and pressing down until the prince moans with pleased, surprised pain, another pair of strong hands appears on that slender chest, firm and determined, sliding down toward his hips. There they remain to pull apart the silk to reveal the prince’s straining length, and hold his hips in place even as Vanimórë leans forward to claim a kiss.

“Tindómion,” he says when he draws back, as if he remembers, but he is not quite certain if he is remembering the past, or the present, or the future. Everything is hazy from the smoke of the pipes that have filled the air with the sweet scent of cinnamon and dreamy intoxication. All he knows is that he knows this man – the strong body, that firm mouth that relaxes only in passion, the eyes that shine with the soul of his father. They are silver, filled with passion and grief and a fierce stubbornness that seems familiar to him, and makes him want to laugh with delight and test his own mettle against it, that star-bright infuriating stubbornness of all of Fëanor's get. 

Tindómion looks at him, mouth hardening into a sensual, arrogant smile. He lowers his head to taste Bainalph instead who arches against him with a low cry, so that Vanimórë wonders whether it was the Fëanorian's mouth that left such marks of passion on the prince's skin.

For a moment he is content to watch them; Bainalph is sinfully wanton, writhing beneath the body of the Fëanorian as if to entice him to handle him more roughly. He smoothes his own hand over Bainalph's chest again, moving down, down, until his fingers find the slickness that seeps from his length. He wets his hand with it before he wraps his palm around the both of them, Bainalph and Tindómion, Prince of the Greenwood and Son of Maglor Fëanorion, straining together against each other with low cries of sensuous need as the stars pale and the clouds above glow a pale, eerie rose.

Later, Bainalph clutches at Elgalad, on his knees and elbows before Tindómion who drives into his body with a precise, relentless cruelty that excites the milk-haired swan prince to broken cries of passion and need. They have tied his arms behind his back with some of the straps of white leather that form his scandalous garment; now he is helpless, overwhelmed, his skin damp with sweat as he arches and moans for more as Tindómion uses him with fierce need. 

Vanimórë kisses the tears from his cheek, then slips his tongue into his mouth, drinking in his broken cries and the taste of his Meluion. Then, Meluion takes Bainalph's mouth, quieting his sounds of need and ecstatic pain with sweet gentleness, and Vanimórë bends to draw Meluion's length into his mouth, feeling him heavy and hard on his tongue, the swollen shaft still adorned by the bands of gold that keep him beautifully aroused as Vanimórë draws on him, swirling his tongue over the sensitive head every time he draws back to sip of the droplets of salty nectar that keep welling up at the stimulation.

It is beautiful. He feels it swelling up within him – not mere, physical pleasure, but that richness of the soul, the fire of the passion that burns within all of them, the beauty of their heritage: starlight that Eru kindled in the heart of each and everyone of them long before they were given body, and now it throbs between them, heat and bright light and a lust that is potent and wild. This is what they were meant to be. This is who they were meant to be. They are free. They are love, and passion; they are bright light, stars that throb and pulse in the blackness of the universe, they are--

His thoughts shatter as Meluion arches and cries out and finds release in his mouth, thick spurts of seed that flood his tongue and which he draws from him greedily, swallowing it with sensual enjoyment. Their eyes meet, and Bainalph and Tindómion fall away until it is just the two of them, sun and moon, two stars circling each other, forever resisting the pull of a vast, black hole. Then Meluion smiles with a love so deep and pure that Vanimórë feels it like the stab of a dagger in his heart, and his fingers rest against his cheek, gentle and soft. Lips brush his hair, and he is warm and loved and held. 

He clings to the memory of that strange emotion he cannot ever have known even when he wakes in his dark cell, encased in the dark stone of Angmar, there at the heart of the Black Hole that yearns to swallow the universe; he thinks of hair like light, and a voice that is love. And even though the memory of all that was, or all that will be, has been leeched from his mind by the darkness that swallows all that dares to stand against it, the taste of thick salt remains in his mouth for weeks. Though the darkness that sired him would call it the taste of his own tears, he knows that it is not. There are still moments at night when that memory of what is not almost gives him peace.


End file.
